


take my hand and let us fall

by wolfhalls



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bit of the old tenderness here, Fingerfucking, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfhalls/pseuds/wolfhalls
Summary: “I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, “but I must have misheard you. ‘Three times’? Geralt, you’re not a man. You’re a-”“Shut up,” Geralt says. “I shouldn’t have told you.”“The worst thing of all,” Jaskier says, either having gone deaf or choosing to ignore Geralt completely, “is that you’ve never really tried. That this is total hearsay. Gods, it could be more than three. You could go all night.”“If you keep on,” Geralt says, “You’ll never find out."(or: Witchers don't have refractory periods, and Jaskier is keen to investigate.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 176
Kudos: 4366





	take my hand and let us fall

**Author's Note:**

> well what a way to start the decade! the title comes from [jdnt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64RciCA_RmE) by glass animals, which you should listen to on repeat as you read this. i love you all.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, “but I must have misheard you. _‘Three times’_? Geralt, you’re not a man. You’re a-”

“Shut up,” Geralt says. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“The worst thing of all,” Jaskier says, either having gone deaf or choosing to ignore Geralt completely, “is that you’ve never really tried. That this is total hearsay. Gods, it could be more than three. You could go all night.”

“If you keep on,” Geralt says, “You’ll never find out.” Right on cue, the candle beside the bed flickers, casting Jaskier’s face in brief darkness.

“Well,” Jaskier says. “If you do want to explore this particular matter, I am more than willing to help.” He leans down so that his hair brushes the tip of Geralt’s nose, and his hand works its way up underneath Geralt’s shirt. He spreads his palm flat against the plane of Geralt’s stomach, and his other hand comes to brush a stray hair from Geralt’s forehead. “Just say the word.”

Considering that barely an hour ago he’d fucked Jaskier on the furs by the fire, Geralt doubts that that is how the evening is going to pan out. Not that he is curious, really. Not at all. He had mentioned it to Jaskier without any expectations. Merely an observation, a recalling of the bawdy tales he’d overheard from the older Witchers growing up.

“Hmm,” he hums, and shifts so that Jaskier can fit against his side, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder. With a last wavering flicker that casts long, dark shadows over the walls, the candle burns out, and Jaskier’s breathing evens out into the slow, easy rhythm of sleep.

-

Jaskier had come to him at twenty, old enough to know better but young enough to ignore the warning signs. Now, at twenty-nine, he’s just as cocksure, but with the addition of experience. He empties his pockets and out fall stories and songs, whereas before there was nothing but lint and hope.

They’re holed up in a little tavern just on the outskirts of Vizima now. Outside, rain lashes against the windows, making them rattle in their frames. Geralt doesn’t feel the cold, but even he can see the benefits of a warm fire and a proper bed tonight. Jaskier had argued for it, of course. They’d been on the road for five days, and he had argued for it.

This thing of theirs, this long-standing arrangement? It’s beyond foolish. Most people that wind up in Geralt’s bed soon wind up dead, but Jaskier wasn’t one to consider any odds. At twenty-four, he had slung a leg over Geralt’s hips and then sat astride him. The sun had caught in his hair, and he’d laughed. From that moment onwards, good sense had flown out of the window.

It’s not set in stone. Sometimes they will go weeks with nothing but a shared glance, loaded but without purpose. Sometimes Jaskier’s hand will brush against his under a table. Sometimes, like during that summer they spent in that forsaken marshland, they can do nothing but touch each other, driven by something that neither of them can control.

Now, they are here, in a room with creaking floorboards and sloping walls. Now they are here, and Jaskier says “We could always try-” and before he can finish his sentence Geralt nods. It's been a week since they've spoken about it. Despite himself, Geralt has found himself thinking about it. Often. 

Jaskier laughs, clear as a bell, and stands up. “Food first,” he says. “You may not be hungry, but I am. Besides,” he says. “I suppose I’ll be doing all the work. You’ll just get to lie back and think of-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “The food.” He doesn’t try to hide his impatience, and that makes Jaskier laugh all the more.

-

“Do you think,” Jaskier says, “they thought of this?” He runs a finger along Geralt’s thigh, from the crease of his hip to his knee. “That they made you for this just as much as they did killing? Geralt grunts, not even attempting to respond, and Jaskier carries on. “I think they might have done. Not for all of them. Just you. They knew how lovely you’d look, how perfect you’d be for _this._ ”

Geralt groans, frustrated by Jaskier’s talk, and equally for it having such an effect on him. He’s in nothing but his shirt, trousers and smallclothes long discarded. Jaskier is still dressed, but he’s flushed from beer and the warmth of the fire, sleeves rolled up to bare his forearms to the flickering light. If Geralt was prone to sentiment, he’d say that-

“You are thinking very loudly,” Jaskier says.

“Ah,” Geralt replies. “So you can read minds now then?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, but he does reach for Geralt’s cock. Geralt closes his eyes and just feels. Feels Jaskier’s palm, slick with oil, closing around him. He works him slowly at first, a tortuously steady slide that soon has Geralt squirming. “Relax,” Jaskier says. “All night, remember?” Then he’s back to it, faster now, just on the edge of too hard. It’s how Geralt likes it, a preference borne out of needing to be quick, to find release and then move on.

Except there’s no rush tonight, and soon Jaskier slows down again. He swipes at the head of Geralt’s cock with his thumb, working the wetness that has gathered there down to ease his motion even more. It is maddening. He speeds up, then slows down, and then again, and again.

Just when Geralt thinks that he might tear the quilt fisted in his grip, Jaskier speaks. “Do you want my mouth?”

Geralt lets his head fall back. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Maybe later. That’s not an answer though.”

“Yes,” Geralt grits out. “Your mouth. Come on.”

Jaskier grins – and Geralt feels it rather than sees it as Jaskier presses a kiss to his inner thigh – and then everything narrows to the perfect, hot pressure of his mouth around Geralt’s cock. He splays a hand across Geralt’s stomach, and he could do nothing to stop Geralt if he wanted to buck up into his mouth, but Geralt finds himself pinned all the same. Jaskier is good at this, so very good at this. He circles the base of Geralt’s cock with finger and thumb, and then really gets to work.

Geralt has to look at him. If there’s one thing that he’s learnt in his life, it’s that humans come and go, their company all too fleeting before-

No. Not now.

So he looks instead, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can drink it all in. From here he catches a look at the freckles on Jaskier’s back, the legacy of a long stay down by the coast. Jaskier groans around him, and Geralt swears. Jaskier licks him from root to tip, before taking the entire length of him down and _fuck,_ he really was born for this. He works Geralt over and over, and he takes his hand away from Geralt’s belly to palm between his own legs. Geralt feels his thighs start to shake.

“Jaskier,” he says – and it comes out on a shuddering exhale. He reaches for Jaskier’s hair, still keeping his hips perfectly still, and runs his hands through it. He doesn’t pull – he does it to feel the sweat gathering at Jaskier’s hairline, to feel the thrumming pulse at his temples.

Geralt feels the tug of pleasure low in him, a slow, steady building of pressure. Jaskier leans into the pressure of Geralt’s hand at his cheek, and Geralt can _feel_ his cock in Jaskier’s mouth as he does. He gasps, and Jaskier sucks harder, faster, too much and not enough.

His orgasm doesn’t do so much hit him as blindside him, a stupendous wallop of pleasure that he could have done nothing to stop if he tried. He moves through it helplessly, back and forth into Jaskier’s mouth, all of his earlier restraint forgotten in that moment as he holds onto his hair and lets his body move without restraint. Jaskier works him with his tongue the whole time, swallowing around him just when Geralt would have pulled back. He carries on until Geralt is spent and soft, squirming away and closer all at once.

“Well,” Jaskier says – and Gods damn him, his voice is only the slightest bit hoarse. “One down. You know, there’s a song in this somewhere.”

“If you even consider it,” Geralt says, “I’m blowing this candle out and going to sleep.”

Jaskier frowns. “Well,” he says. “We can’t have that. Not as we set off on this voyage of discovery.”

“Jaskier...”

“I know, I know,” - and Jaskier’s voice is serious now. Kind, even. “I know it embarrasses you sometimes. To be like-” and here he gestures at Geralt, still clad in a rumpled shirt and with his soft cock resting against his thigh “-this. I just want to make you feel good though.” He rests his head on Geralt’s stomach, looking up at him through the mess of his hair. “That’s all I ever want to do.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything to that, loath to ruin the moment. He just reaches down to touch Jaskier’s hair again, to brush it out of his eyes. He doesn’t feel tired, the warm press of Jaskier’s body against his is enough to keep him awake – and interested. Long minutes pass with no sound but their breathing and the crackle of the fire. Then Jaskier moves, slowly but with intent. As he does, something beside him catches in the light, delicate and clear. A bottle. _Oh._

“When did you get that?” Geralt asks. His cock firms up once more, having taken very little convincing to do so. 

“Sleight of hand,” Jaskier says, and he picks up the bottle, moving it back and forth between his hands, warming it. “I shan’t reveal all my tricks.”

Geralt sits up then, taking off his shirt at last. While he does, Jaskier is tugging off his own clothes, and reaching behind himself to-

Their eyes meet, and Geralt just watches, stilled by Jaskier’s gaze. He watches the motion of his arm bent behind him, how his hips flex, how his cock fills. He watches Jaskier’s face, his eyebrows drawing close, the parting of his lips as he goes from the good pleasure to the great pleasure, ready and wanting and somehow, Geralt’s.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” Jaskier says – and Geralt watches, enraptured, as he works in another finger. “I’ve been thinking about how you’ll feel, but, _oh._ Oh, stars- fuck. I’ve been think about how you’ll look most of all.” He fixes Geralt with a heady stare then, and whines in pleasure, moving back and forth on his fingers with vigour now.

“Please say you’re ready,” Geralt says, rarely given to begging. He hauls Jaskier into his lap, and then the oil is being pressed into his hands, and his fingers are right there where Jaskier is slick and ready and just perfect for him.

When Jaskier sinks down onto his cock, they both moan. Jaskier is radiating heat, and Geralt’s hands come to rest on his hips. Jaskier trembles, desperate to move but mindful of the way he had taken Geralt’s cock inside him, swift and just on the edge of too eager. Geralt waits for his breathing to slow, and then Jaskier’s hands are at his face, cradling his jaw. “Come on,” he says. “Move, you brute.”

Geralt does. He meets Jaskier’s downward motion with his own, skin slapping against skin. He spreads his palms across the small of Jaskier’s back, trying to bring him even closer. Jaskier goes willingly, hand fisting in Geralt’s hair, pulling it loose from its tie. He breathes into Geralt’s mouth, little needy exhalations that are beyond song. If Jaskier made sounds like this for the punters in the bar downstairs, Geralt would never have to slay another monster again.

The pace is nothing short of brutal, but Jaskier takes it, begs for it with the arch of his back and the hard clench of his hand in Geralt’s hair. He pulls Geralt’s head backwards and looks down at him, and Geralt feels that clenching low in his belly, the prelude to something overwhelming. Jaskier pants, bites his lip, groans. “You’re lovely,” he says, the words barely holding shape. “Geralt, you’re just-”

Geralt reaches between them to where Jaskier is hard and wanting, and takes him in hand. He tries to match thrust to pull, but his own rapidly approaching orgasm sees him unable to keep the rhythm. It’s enough for Jaskier though, mindlessly crying out as Geralt fucks him and rubs him just as good as he deserves. When he peaks, Geralt feels it from the outside and in, and chases the sound that Jaskier makes with his mouth. He can’t hold on now, and he digs his heels into the mattress and moves up and up and up and-

This time, climax is slow and strung out, every muscle in his body drawing taut and then shuddering in release. His fingers dig into the softness of Jaskier’s thighs, and he gasps as Jaskier tightens around him again – unintentionally or not, he’ll never know. It rolls through him from temple to toe, a steady flow of pleasure that he doesn’t think will end.

End it must though, and soon enough Jaskier is squirming and catching his breath, forehead resting against Geralt’s. Geralt can _hear_ the hammering of his heart, can smell the heady tang of pleasure well spent on his skin.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt allows himself a little smile at the slur of his words.

“I’m more given to deep thinking,” Geralt says.

“Gods help us,” Jaskier says – and then he’s lifting himself up. He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I need a bath.”

“It’s still early,” Geralt says. “Have them draw one for you.”

“You’ll pay?”

Geralt sighs. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll pay.” He doesn’t mind it – his purse is full and Jaskier looks something close to beautiful right now. Geralt sighs. So much for not being prone to sentiment then. Jaskier looks at him, and as if he can sense the way Geralt is beginning to wrestle with himself, he reaches for his hand.

“Call for the bath,” he says, and squeezes. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Geralt does, and a while later, Jaskier emerges pink-skinned and scrubbed clean. The fire is burning down to its last embers now, so Geralt stokes it, throwing another log in for good measure. They’re running up quite the bill. He can’t bring himself to care.

“Now,” Jaskier says when he comes back to bed. “What shall we do with you?”

“We don’t have to-”

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “You’re forgetting something. I want to.” He toys with the edge of Geralt’s shirt, thrown on in haste to make sure that Jaskier got his bath. “I think you should take this off again. And then I think you should lie back, and then-”

“I get the gist,” Geralt says, but he laughs as he does as he’s bid. Jaskier watches him, and sighs.

“If we’d got around to this when I was twenty, I’d go again,” he says. “But you had to hold out on me.”

“I didn’t know,” Geralt says, and lets Jaskier guide him back down to the softness of a pillow under his head.

“You did,” Jaskier says – and there’s a little frustration there, a little regret – but it’s gone as quickly as Geralt can raise an eyebrow. “But it’s alright.”

“Jaskier-”

“I’m getting older, Geralt. That’s all.” He shrugs, puffing himself up with bravado with a hard roll of his shoulders. “I mean I’m just jealous of your superhuman ability to keep going again and again. How old are you, anyway? Fifty? A hundred?”

“That’s quite the leap,” Geralt says, smiling now.

“Well,” Jaskier replies. “It always is with you.” He shakes his head and laughs. “I’m getting sidetracked. I believe I promised you at least _one_ more-”

“I believe it was more you taking it upon yourself-”

“Let’s not worry about the specifics,” Jaskier says, and he’s really laughing now, brief slip into maudlin talk seemingly forgotten. “Stay there,” he says, and reaches for the oil once more. “Right then. Name your price, Witcher.”

Geralt lets his legs fall open in what he hopes is a clear enough message, and Jaskier smiles. “You know I can’t-”

“I know,” Geralt says. “I want-” and he swallows around a sudden dryness in his throat. “I want your fingers.”

“Good boy,” Jaskier says carelessly, blindly unaware of how those two, short sharp syllables send a thousand dizzying thoughts through his mind all at once. Stars above and hells below. Jaskier looks at him, right into him somehow, and picks up the dancing thread of thought. “Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, my-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, no, growls. “Your fingers.” A long moment passes, Jaskier seemingly struck dumb. “Please.”

What follows in those moments is swift indeed – the uncorking of the bottle, the trickle of gold over Jaskier’s fingers, one of which he presses into Geralt. Carefully, but still with a haste that anyone but Geralt wouldn’t be able to bear. It’s been a while since they’ve done it like this, with Geralt lying supine and Jaskier above him.

Jaskier twists his finger up, searching, and then curls it forwards. Geralt can’t help the noise that he makes at the spark of pleasure it ignites, and with each movement of Jaskier’s finger, the spark grows to a low, hot burning.

“More,” Geralt says. He knows this won’t be enough, knows that he needs more of Jaskier in him, stretching him open and coaxing from him what he can. What he wants. “Fuck, more.”

Jaskier works quickly again, and returns with another finger, more slick easing the way. “You know,” he says. “This feels just as good as doing it to myself. I could watch you all night.” He twists his fingers as he finishes speaking, and Geralt arches upwards, closer.

Jaskier keeps going, moving and curling and twisting his fingers inside Geralt. Each time they brush up against that deep, hidden place inside him Geralt moans. He doesn’t try to talk, doesn’t try to direct Jaskier – who has a third finger in him now, and after a blink or an eternity, a fourth.

“I wish you could see this,” Jaskier says, and surely his hand must be cramping up now. Absurdly, Geralt thinks of Jaskier's fingers toying with the strings of his lute, and how right now they are coaxing sounds forth again. How they are moving with precision, because Jaskier knows him now. Geralt spreads his legs wider, hoping that Jaskier can get deeper.

In the end, it’s Jaskier’s thumb brushing against where his fingers are sliding in that sends Geralt over the edge. This time the pleasure feels dull at first, but then it builds, and builds, until Geralt can never remember feeling anything else. He tries to breathe, tries to stay still, but it’s a lost cause with Jaskier’s fingers moving relentlessly. Geralt’s peak ebbs, dulling down – and Jaskier doesn’t let up. Just keeps moving, and moving-

“Fuck,” Geralt says. “I don’t think you can.”

“Will you let me try?” Jaskier asks. He slows his pace just a little, and Geralt hasn’t even had a chance to soften yet, for the pleasure to really pass. He gasps as his cock jumps, and the feeling is seizing him again, and he doesn’t know if he can again so soon, with barely a minute passing since he came, if he can stand it, if he-

“Come on,” Jaskier says, soft and sly all at once. “You can. For me.”

For a moment Geralt thinks that it’s through him, that he’s past the point of being able to – but then he rocks down onto Jaskier’s fingers and then he is struck by a hard, long clench of pleasure. It almost hurts, and Geralt can’t quite catch his breath as it takes hold of him again and again. He thinks he might be crying out, and there’s something in his eyes, a sudden wetness, and it’s too much, too good-

“Stop,” he manages to gasp out. “Please.”

Jaskier does, slowing the pace of his fingers and then slowly, slowly drawing them out. Geralt looks at the ceiling, his breath coming back to him. His body trembles with little lingering shocks of sensation, and his body clenches around the empty space where Jaskier’s fingers were just a minute ago. He doesn’t think that he can move – so for once, he doesn’t try. Jaskier comes to lie next to him, smiling.

“Well,” he says. “What was that? Four?” He grins, unapologetically pleased. 

Geralt hums, speech beyond him for another moment. Outside, the wind wails – and he is so very pleased that Jaskier made him stop here tonight.

Jaskier nudges him. “Do you want me to clean you up?”

Geralt looks down at himself, even though the effort of moving is almost too much. _Oh._ “Perhaps,” he says. “It’s fine, I’ll-”

“Don’t,” Jaskier says. “Let me take care of you.”

It’s a luxury that no one in Geralt’s line of work should allow themselves, but he’s been breaking the rules for some time now with Jaskier. He allows it. He enjoys it.

Tomorrow, they ride on to the mountains. A month or so ago, there had been talk of Jaskier buying a horse of his own in the next proper town they found themselves in – and Geralt had seen a handsome mare in the stables just down the street. He thinks about it – how Jaskier’s stays with him are getting longer and longer, their paths entwining rather than diverging. He likes Jaskier’s company. He likes the way they fit together in a bedroll, back to back and toe to toe and then turned in to press chest to chest.

Nine years. What’s another few?

It’s a terrible idea, all of it. Still though, Geralt opens his mouth to ask.

**Author's Note:**

> i saw joey batey in a play a few years ago and, you guessed it, he played the lute.
> 
> thank you for reading! you can find me on tumblr @mantelpieces :)


End file.
